Only Time Can Heal A Broken Heart
by SplatDragon
Summary: Something was up with Arthur. Dutch knew the boy like the back of his hand. He'd raised him, after all. Molded him, turned him from a frightened, angry street-rat into a bold, brave, young man. So he knew that something was wrong.


**Whumptober 2019, #14: "Tear-Stained"**

Something was up with Arthur.

Dutch knew the boy like the back of his hand. He'd raised him, after all. Molded him, turned him from a frightened, angry street-rat into a bold, brave, young man.

So he knew that something was wrong.

The boy had taken to leaving camp early in the morning, and returning late at night. Smelled like alcohol more often than not, hackled up when he or Hosea, Susan or Bessie or even Annabelle tried to approach him. He was out more often than he was when they lived near Eliza and little Isaac.

Oh, Eliza and Isaac.

It was hard to believe that his boy was a father—that he was a grandfather. He remembered when he was still a scrawny little thing, all long limbs and knobby knees, too big feet and too broad shoulders. Scared of everything, afraid of he and Hosea, flinching at the first sign of a raised voice, tucking tail and hiding when the alcohol came out.

And that was before Susan, and Bessie, and Annabelle and young John, wasn't it? So much had changed since they'd taken him in. He'd gotten together with Susan, and broken up with her. Hosea had met Bessie, and married her—legally, in a church, even!—and he had met Annabelle, brought into their fold. And they'd saved John's life, brought the scrappy kid back to camp.

And Arthur had met Eliza. One night later, and they'd had Isaac. Time flew, and his boy was a father.

Arthur had been happier than he could remember him ever being. He'd been _terrified_ at first, scared to death that he'd be a horrible father. Still was, sometimes, he knew.

But Arthur adored that little boy. Isaac was the light of his life, the apple of his eye. Every time he went to visit, he brought Eliza flowers, bought toys for the boy. Took all the gifts that their family gave him to give to their grandson, their nephew, books from Dutch, carved toys from Hosea, clothes and stuffed animals from the women.

His boy was kinder.

Softer, almost.

More patient with John, more willing to take time out of his day to teach the boy how to do things. Had taken to fishing more with he and Hosea, trying to become better at it so, as he said, he could teach his son, and then his boy could fish with his pa like Arthur had. Had even tried to learn to crochet under Susan, before writing it off as a lost cause.

So long as Arthur kept up his duties to the gang, though, hunted and helped with heists and brought in money, then Dutch didn't mind. His boy was happy, so he was happy.

But now his boy _wasn't_ happy, and Dutch worried. Hosea was concerned, too, had tried to approach Arthur but had been sent away in short order, and knew better than to push him, that it would only make him more surly, more withdrawn. Susan and Bessie had brought up their concerns, and Annabelle had tried to talk to him, too; she was all-but his mother, so they were sure she'd be able to get through to him.

But, impossibly, he'd chased her away, too.

And they worried, and knew that something had to be done.

Dutch waited, and watched. Arthur had left camp early that morning, and Dutch knew he wouldn't be back until late. So he sat in his tent, thumbed through one of the books Hosea had brought him from his recent trip into town—a philosophy book he was surprised to discover he rather enjoyed.

Hosea was off with Bessie, and Susan and Annabelle had gone into town for the night, taking John with them. They knew he was going to try and talk to Arthur tonight, had wished him luck and wanted to give them their privacy.

He listened to the sound of thumping footsteps, slightly unsteady—was the boy drunk _again?_—and read a few pages more once he heard Arthur go into his tent, letting him have time to unravel and, hopefully, sober up a bit.

Dutch marked his page with his bookmark, finding a good stopping point, and set it aside. This Evelyn Miller, he was discovering, had some good points. It wasn't often that he dreaded talking to Arthur, but with how temperamental the boy had become lately, he found himself increasingly reluctant the closer he came to his tent.

He hesitated outside of the canvas tent, taking a deep breath—there was a strangled breath, and he paused.

'_Is he hurt?'_

Dutch didn't hesitate to shove aside the tent flap, to step inside and announce, "Arthur?"

His boy froze, shoulders stiff.

Dutch took in the inside of his tent—his satchel, dumped carelessly on the ground, gun belt dropped next to it. And Arthur himself, sitting, slumped on the bed, one of Isaac's toys—the stag Hosea had carved for him out of antler, that Hosea had given him himself—clutched in his hands. His thumb ran slowly, methodically, over its face, stopping abruptly as he jolted upright to face Dutch.

"What?" he croaked, sounding too tired to be startled, and far, far too tired for someone so young.

He looked from the toy, to Arthur's tear-streaked face, eyes red and watery, then back to the toy again, a nasty, foreboding feeling settling deep in his gut. "Are you alright, son?"

Arthur blinked at him slowly, and shrugged. Dutch fought the urge to sigh, knowing he'd have to treat carefully-

"They're dead."

His thoughts came to a crashing halt. "_What?"_

His boy nodded slowly, dropping his gaze back to Isaac's toy stag, rubbing his thumb along the face. "Yeah. Went to visit and," he cleared his throat, reaching up to wipe at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, "and," slowly, Dutch sat next to him on the cot, resting his hand on his back.

From there, he could see how much darker the antler was than normal, and his heart broke for his boy, wondering just how long he had sat holding it to his chest.

"And there was just graves."

Dutch's heart broke for his boy, unable to stand the way his voice cracked, the way it gave out and how defeated he sounded. "Oh, son," he stroked his thumb along the knobs of his boy's spine.

"They was robbed, Dutch." his shoulders stiffened, "ten damn dollars. _Ten_." he clenched his fist around the stag, before loosening it, stroking his thumb along the grain of the carving as though in apology. "One of the neighbors saw me standin' there. Told me what happened."

"I'm so sorry, Arthur." and he was. He'd lost people, had lost his father when he was younger, but never anyone he truly cared for. Had never lost a child, or a partner. But just the thought of losing Annabelle, or Susan, of losing Arthur or John, it was… well, it was unthinkable. He'd lose his mind, would blame himself, blame himself for bringing them into this life.

And, knowing Arthur, that was exactly what was going through his head.

"Dutch," Arthur croaked, "I've killed men for less. Taken wedding rings off of men I've killed. Those people I've killed… they were people's sons, people's husbands, people's fathers. I'm as bad as they are."

Dutch sighed, shaking his head. His poor, poor boy. He wasn't thinking straight, he knew, but it was a thought they all had at some point. Killing in their line of work was an inevitability, no matter how hard you tried to avoid it. And it was impossible _not_ to think about those lives you'd stolen away, late at night when you couldn't sleep. Had they been married? Did they have kids? Were you leaving another child an orphan? Another woman to raise a child alone?

"Arthur, son. I know you. You've only ever killed when you had to. Those men you've killed… they were trying to kill you. If you hadn't killed them, they would have killed you. And they wouldn't have hesitated, they wouldn't have cared that they were leaving Hosea and I without our son."

His boy shook his head, opened his mouth to respond, made a low croaking sound and dropped his gaze back to the stag. "I should have _been there_, Dutch. I promised I'd protect them and… and I _didn't_."

"_Arthur_," Dutch pressed, "you couldn't have known." he brought his hand up, ran his fingers through Arthur's hair—he'd loved that when he was younger, although he had never admitted it. "You were the best father you ever could have been, son. You loved that boy, and that boy _loved you_. He loved you more than anything. You gave him a _good_ life, better than a lot of kids get." He softened his voice. "There was nothing you could have done."

Arthur clenched his jaw, stroked the toy stag, and shook his head. Dutch sighed, and wrapped his arm around him. The man stiffened, but slowly leaned in, burying his face in the crook of his neck, shoulders trembling as he clutched the stag to his chest.


End file.
